


Five Times Porthos Was Sad and One Time His Brothers Cheered Him Up

by Vera_dAuriac



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bad Days, Brotherly Love, Canon Era, Five Times, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things aren't going well for Porthos, until they are. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Porthos Was Sad and One Time His Brothers Cheered Him Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellyb6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/gifts).



> Mellyb6 is a giant sweetheart and has written some lovely stuff for me, and I owed her. She said all he wanted was happy Porthos, so here's happy Porthos!
> 
> Also, thanks to Snow_Glory for loaning me Bob the Goat from "Following the Leader": http://archiveofourown.org/works/5075812
> 
> I don't own these characters, I just dream about them at night.

By Vera d’Auriac 

**I.**  
Porthos stared. 

And stared. 

And stared some more. 

All he could do was stare as the pudgy man with the gray stubble scraped every last sou Porthos had into a leather money purse. Every. Last. Sou. 

“It has been a pleasure.” The man smiled at Porthos. “Good evening.” He said this last while he put on his hat and tipped it a little in Porthos’s direction. 

And Porthos just stared.

**II.**  
It was his own fault, Porthos realized, as he put on his own hat and shuffled to the door. There was a reason he only played with marked decks and an ace up his sleeve, or for small stakes with his fellow Musketeers. But tonight he decided to give his luck a chance with somebody he didn’t know in a tavern he never went to playing with a deck provided by the proprietor. Porthos was a good card player, and in an honest game he still won more often than not. But winning more often than not still meant he lost sometimes. And he had just lost. Every. Last. Sou. 

Of course, when he got outside, it started raining. 

After half a block, he felt a wet trickle on his right foot. “This is not happening,” he said aloud. 

But it was. He leaned against the wall of the building he was passing and turned his foot around so he could see the sole of his boot. Sure enough, there was a hole at the ball of his foot. He could even see his soggy sock through it. These boots had already been patched and resoled, and the simple fact was he needed a new pair desperately. Too bad he’d taken all of his money to a tavern instead of a cobbler. 

**III.**   
When Porthos woke the next morning, he decided today would be a better day. Sure, he had no money until the next pay, whenever that might come, and there was a hole in his boot, but he could eat at the garrison, so he wouldn’t starve. And he could stuff some leather from an old glove in his boot until he could afford to get it patched up properly. God knew growing up in the Court of Miracles he would have been thrilled to have something so good to plug a hole in his shoe. He’d made due for a lot of years with far less. He'd be fine. 

After a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, Porthos headed into the yard where all the other Musketeers were assembled for Treville’s morning address. He nodded at Athos, who looked pretty awake by his standards, slapped d’Artagnan on the back, and fell in beside an ever-smiling Aramis. Based on how few of the buttons on his doublet were done up, and the extreme messiness of his hair, Porthos suspected Aramis had just come from a far more pleasant evening than the one he’d had. 

“Morning,” Treville called down from the balcony outside his office door. “I have an important announcement. In two days time the king will be hosting an envoy from the king of England. As always, we will be tasked with providing security. I expect you all to look your best. Your good shirts, clean doublets, pants pressed, boots polished. We will show the English the finest of France, gentlemen. Be prepared. Dismissed.” 

“What has you so down?” Aramis asked Porthos, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

Porthos showed Aramis the bottom of his boot. “It’s alright,” he shrugged. “The English aren’t going to be inspecting the bottom of my boots, are they?” 

“Shall we spar?” Athos asked when he and d’Artagnan joined Aramis and Porthos. They all readily agreed, and fell into their usual pairings: Porthos and Aramis trying to fool the other with moves they both knew in their sleep, while Athos tried to hone d’Artagnan’s youthful enthusiasm. 

But then Athos declared he wanted to watch d’Artagnan fight for a while, and Porthos happily agreed to step aside and let Aramis and d’Artagnan test each other. Athos made several comments on d’Artagnan’s form, but he didn’t seem to quite understand, so Athos enlisted Porthos’s help demonstrating. And the lesson was going well, until Athos brought his sword down on Porthos’s, snapping off Porthos’s blade about a foot from the hilt. 

Everyone stopped moving. And once more, Porthos could only stare. At the broken blade. Of his favorite sword. 

**IV.**  
Porthos spent the rest of his morning cleaning guns with Aramis. He was too disheartened to do anything else, still mourning the loss of his sword. When Athos and d’Artagnan stopped to ask them if they wanted to go with them for lunch to the bakery by d’Artagnan and Constance’s, Aramis immediately said, “Yes.” Porthos, however, frowned. 

“Nah,” he said. “Go on without me. I’ll get something here.” 

So Porthos had a quiet lunch in the corner of the yard consisting of what bread and cheese the cook hadn’t been able to give away at breakfast. “Cleaning stove pipes today,” the cook explained. “Might have something hot for supper, but I wouldn’t bet on it.” 

At this point, Porthos wouldn’t bet on anything. 

Although he probably should have bet on his luck getting worse. When the others returned from lunch, they wouldn’t look at him. Athos and Aramis looked only at d’Artagnan, and he looked at the ground. 

“What?” Porthos said, half growling, half groaning, and wholly not wanting to know what had gone wrong now. 

“So…,” d’Artagnan said slowly, kicking at the ground and still not meeting Porthos’s gaze. “You remember how you gave me your laundry for Constance to do?” 

Of course Porthos remembered. D’Artagnan had wanted to leave early last week on his birthday because Constance had something special planned. So he could make it on time, Porthos had taken d’Artagnan’s duty for him: mucking out stalls. In return, Constance had offered to do his laundry. “Yeah,” Porthos answered slowly. 

“Well, you remember Bob the Goat, right?” 

Aramis snickered, but that just made Porthos more nervous. Some grateful children had once given Aramis a goat, a female goat, that somehow got named Bob. Athos had refused to allow the animal to stay at the garrison, so Constance had taken in Bob. “Yeah, I remember the goat.” 

“You see, Constance did the laundry and hung it out to dry, and Bob is supposed to always be in one section of the yard, but somehow, she got into the other where the laundry was hanging, and well….” D’Artagnan held out a ragged bit of cloth. There was just enough of the embroidery from around the collar left for Porthos to recognize his best shirt. The one he needed for palace duty in two days. 

**V.**   
Porthos wiggled his toes in his boot. The leather scrap was keeping his foot dry, but damn if it wasn’t uncomfortable. Somehow, it had bunched up, and if he couldn’t get it to lay flat, this would be one hell of an uncomfortable afternoon. He and Aramis and some other men from the garrison were patrolling the streets around the Louvre, keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious ahead of the English envoy’s arrival the next day. It was the kind of duty Treville often put him in charge of. Growing up in the Court of Miracles gave him a decided advantage over the other Musketeers in determining who was a threat and who was just part of Paris’s local color. 

He stopped to watch a couple barefoot boys splash each other in a puddle lingering from the rain two nights before. They only looked about 8 or 9, but Porthos knew that meant they were probably 12 or 13. He’d been just as scrawny at their age, and without Flea and Charon he would probably never have filled out for want of food. He smiled at the boys and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. He sighed. His borrowed sword from the garrison armory. He was about to start lamenting his lost shirt, too, unsure what he would wear to the palace the next day, but he stopped. Who cared about a fancy shirt? He remembered a time when he didn’t have a shirt that fit him, period. The boys wrestled and giggled in the puddle, and Porthos wished he hadn’t lost all his money, so he could buy them a loaf of bread. 

“Porthos? Is that you?” 

He spun around, stunned at the voice he was hearing. But right there, not even five feet away, smiling up at him outside the dressmaker’s shop, was Alice. He hadn’t run into her since the challenge between the Musketeers and the Red Guard, but he still thought about his beautiful patroness from time to time. Oh, who was he kidding? He still thought about her a lot of the time. Knowing they would never make each other happy in the long run didn’t actually do much to change his feelings for her. 

“Hello, Alice,” he smiled. “You’re looking extremely well.” And she was. Her face glowed and her shiny hair looked as lovely as ever piled atop her head. And as far as the bodice of her dress…. Oh, yes. Alice was still a lovely woman. 

When Porthos joined her in two strides, she held out her hand, and he very gratefully kissed it. They might have decided they could never marry, but not being married hadn’t stopped them before. Maybe it wouldn’t again? She was so lovely. “I would have never guessed that I would run into you today,” she said, as he lingered over her hand longer than he should have. 

“It’s true. I don’t usually frequent Paris’s finest dressmakers.” 

She laughed, her delightful, warm laugh, and Porthos could feel a tingling in his stomach. “That is true. Had it been otherwise, I would have been at the dressmaker’s much more often in the hopes of running into you.” 

“Alice, sorry to keep you waiting. It took longer to settle up than I expected.” The speaker was a slightly round man who’d come up behind Alice from the shop. He wore a stupid curly brown wig, much like the king’s, and a hat that was entirely too tall. He put his hand on Alice’s shoulder, and the tingle in Porthos’s stomach changed to an uncomfortable churning. 

“Oh, it’s alright,” she said, beaming at this strange man. “I ran into an old friend and was just catching up. This is Porthos, a King’s Musketeer. Porthos, this is Alain Roche, my fiancé. I was just picking out my wedding clothes.” 

**I. (again)**  
“Porthos, you look as though you’ve been punched in the gut,” Aramis said when he met up with Porthos about an hour after he had seen Alice. “Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I’ve seen you after you’ve been punched in the gut. You usually look happier after that.” Aramis flung an arm around his shoulders and started steering the way back to the garrison. “Now, tell me what happened.” 

“I saw Alice.” 

“Alice? The lovely widow and benefactress? That should have you decidedly more pleased with life than you appear.” 

“She introduced me to her fiancé.” 

“Ah. Suddenly I am surprised that you are doing as well as you are.” 

“But we decided it could never work out between us,” Porthos said. He had to pause to frown. “I should be happy for her.” 

“And deep in your heart, you are. You just can’t get to that part of your heart at the moment because of the very natural sadness you have in the rest of your heart.” 

“Wish I could just get drunk.” 

“Why on earth can’t you?” Aramis asked. 

Porthos took a deep breath. He had always known he couldn’t forever keep from Aramis, Athos, and d’Artagnan the fact he’d lost all his money. God only knew when they would get paid again, and he was sure to need something before then that he couldn’t scrounge at the garrison, and he would have to ask one of them for a loan. Still he wished he could put it off. 

“I’ve got no money, Aramis. I lost it all at cards a couple nights ago. I can’t afford to get drunk.” 

“Porthos! You honestly believe I would allow you to remain sober under such circumstances? You wound me!” 

Porthos couldn’t help a little smile. He would have never asked it of Aramis, but that was why he loved Aramis—he never had to ask. “You sure you have enough? I think I’m going to need a lot.” 

“If I do not, I know where Athos keeps his wine stash.” 

They made it back to the garrison in time for supper, and while Porthos was still finishing up, Aramis slipped away. When he returned, he was carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and an entire jug in the other. Porthos grinned as wide as he could with his last bite of stew in his mouth. Aramis laughed. 

“I wish you could see your face! Your eyes have brightened up and the first glass hasn’t even been poured. Ready to head off to my room? I told Athos and d’Artagnan to meet us there and to bring extra supplies.” 

Porthos slid off the bench and grabbed half a loaf of bread. If he was going to drink even half as much tonight as he wanted to, he’d be happy for the snack. “Lead the way. But what’s this nonsense about a ‘first glass’? Pretty sure you just need to pass over that jug. No glass necessary.” 

“Ha!” Aramis exclaimed, elbowing Porthos as they rounded the corner and neared his room. “Can you get the door? My hands….” He waved the wine. 

Porthos happily turned the handle and held the door open for Aramis. As soon as they were both in, Porthos lit a candle on the table just inside the door while Aramis set the wine down and lit an oil lamp. Once there was some light, Porthos couldn’t help but notice a shiny new pair of boots under the very table where he’d found the candle. He could literally see the reflection of the flame in them, they were polished so brightly. 

“New boots?” Porthos asked with a nod at them. “Awfully nice. Going to outshine us all at the palace. But you always do look good.” 

“If you think those boots will make all the difference, then I’m not sure why you think I’ll outshine you all,” Aramis said. He left the oil lamp on the round table in front of the fireplace and walked over to Porthos. He slapped a hand on his shoulder. “The boots are for you.” 

Porthos tilted his head and screwed his face up at Aramis. “What do you mean they’re mine?” 

“Precisely that. I couldn’t help but notice that you need new boots, so I got you a pair.” 

“But they must have cost so much. I can’t accept them.” 

Aramis smiled at him and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Why ever not? When I suddenly found myself in need of new pants but not a sou in my pocket, who bought me new ones?” 

Porthos shook his head. “But those were pants. Basic ones, at that. And I owed you for getting me new gloves when we were off on that mission and I forgot my money purse. That was thanks to Athos getting us so drunk the night before we left. Really should’ve made him buy me the new gloves.” 

“Have you noticed the deplorable state of my hat? I’m sure to need a new one before the year is out. Take the boots, Porthos. It will make me very happy if you do.” 

When he put it like that, what was Porthos to do but wrap him up in a tight hug and say, “Thank you.” And for the first time since he walked home in the rain from the tavern where he lost all his money, he felt warm. 

“I hope you haven’t started without us,” Athos said, entering without bothering to knock, d’Artagnan close on his heels. 

Porthos pounded Aramis on the back and let him go. “Nah. You two haven’t missed anything.” 

“Very good,” Athos said, setting two bottles of wine down on the table by the fireplace. “Because I wanted the opportunity to start your night off perfectly.” When he turned back, he drew his sword from its sheath. Except it wasn’t Athos’s sword at all. It was a completely different blade Porthos had never seen Athos carry. It was a little long for Athos, but the way he held it in his hand, Porthos guessed it was well balanced. And the hilt was nice but nothing special—a crisscross basket a little bigger than on Athos’s usual sword and a good leather grip from what Porthos could see peeking out from either end of Athos’s hand. 

“Not sure how challenging me to a duel in Aramis’s room gets my night off to a good start,” Porthos chuckled. “And somebody will have to loan me a sword. Had to turn mine in at the end of the day, since it belongs to the regiment and not me.” 

“Ah, you misunderstand me,” Athos said with the hint of a smile. When Porthos caught d’Artagnan’s eye when he looked up from the table where he was rummaging through his bag, Porthos saw him smile as well. He couldn’t help it—Porthos gave Aramis a glance as well, and he, too, was smiling. 

“Wait a minute,” Porthos said. “That cannot possibly be for me.” 

“Oh, but it can,” said Athos, taking a couple gliding steps toward Porthos and offering the blade. “I went to the armory and looked through the swords they were currently working on and picked one out for you.” 

“But the armorer doesn’t make blades for individual Musketeers,” Porthos argued. 

“They do when I tell them to do so.” Athos pushed the basket over Porthos’s hand. “After this ridiculous spectacle at the palace, we will be leaving on a real mission. This is for my own safety. A well-armed Porthos at my side is crucial for the success of the mission.” 

“I…,” Porthos stopped and cleared his throat, taking a firm grip on the sword. His sword. It felt good in his hand. A little heavier than what the others used, but he liked the weight. Unlike Athos, he wasn’t going to finesse many people to death by carving them up neatly. He did better with a heavy, blunt object. “I can’t thank you enough. It’s…well, it’s been a bad few days. Today was the worst. Least it had been.” He paused again, and Aramis pressed a wine glass into his hand without the sword. 

“He ran into Alice while we were out on patrol,” Aramis explained, while Porthos took a good, long drink. “Naturally, a woman of her intelligence and beauty was not going to remain a widow forever. But just as naturally, she could never choose a man who would have been half so worthy as our Porthos. It has him a trifle glum.” 

Porthos stifled some awful noise that was somewhere between a snort and a sob with another sip of wine. When he looked up at Athos and saw just how wide Athos’s smile was now, but with so much sympathy in his eyes, Porthos felt himself get a little teary-eyed. And he didn’t even care. Not in the least. He cleared his throat again and drank some more wine before he went on. “But I’ve got you lot. That’s why things didn’t work out with Alice in the first place, isn’t it? And now I’ve got a beautiful new sword and a shiny pair of boots.” 

“Shiny boots?” d’Artagnan asked, joining them by the door. He passed a glass of wine to Athos and sipped from one of his own. 

Porthos nudged the toe of one of his new boots. “Aramis got them for me.” 

“And you said we hadn’t missed anything,” Athos drawled at Aramis. 

“Well, you haven’t missed him trying them on,” said Aramis. He bent over and picked up the boots. “Come over and put them on. Let’s see if they fit before you attempt to stand in them all day at the palace tomorrow.” 

Porthos let Aramis lead him over to the bed, where Porthos sat his drink down on the tiny table next to Aramis’s pillow. 

He kicked off his old boots, the strip of leather sticking to his sock. Once he had that peeled off, he slid first one foot and then the other into his new boots. He adjusted the buckles and straps a little and then wiggled his toes and placed his feet flat on the floor. They fit perfect. 

“They couldn’t be better,” Porthos told Aramis with a smile he was sure used all of his dimples. 

“So, new sword, new boots, you’re almost ready for palace duty,” said d’Artagnan. He smirked. “Just one piece missing.” D’Artagnan went over to the bag he had been searching earlier and pulled out a lovely white shirt with lace at the collar and sleeves and lining the opening at the throat where it tied shut. 

“That can’t be for me,” Porthos protested. “Even Aramis doesn’t have anything that fancy.” 

“But it is for you,” d’Artagnan said, grinning as he brought the shirt over to him on the bed. “Constance and I both felt terrible about Bob eating your best shirt. She put everything else aside until she made you a new one. It was the very least we could do.” 

“But this is so much nicer than my best shirt,” Porthos said. Now that he had it in his hands, there was no question about that. This fabric felt both softer and more durable at the same time. And he was no expert on lace, but he’d learned a thing or two about it over the years from Aramis. And this was really fine lace. “You tell Constance she’s far too good to me.” 

“I will.” D’Artagnan patted Porthos on the shoulder, and now Porthos really did start crying, if only for a little bit. Aramis, who was sitting on the bed next to him, wrapped an arm around Porthos’s shoulder and pulled him tight against his side. Athos passed Porthos back his wine. 

Porthos raised his glass. “To the best friends any man has ever had.”


End file.
